


Charmless Man

by orphan_account



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alcohol & Smoking, Bonds, M/M, Nero-centric, Post-DMC5, Rating will change, Slow burn and Strawberries, Unresolved Tension, Vergil cooks, nero's swearing, polyamory later on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23379253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Nero's having trouble with his Devil Trigger, and Vergil more or less helps him. Dante, being the considerate family member he is, gives them space—unknowingly starting something about daddy issues, disconcerting staring, and unresolved tension.
Relationships: Dante/Nero (Devil May Cry), Dante/Vergil (Devil May Cry), Later Nero/Dante/Vergil, Nero/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 118





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> late may note: im planning to edit this before posting a new chap, as i didnt like how my paragraphs/sentences flowed

Nero's crazed Devil Trigger swung, attempted to land a horrid blow on Vergil, although stoic and unmoving—but failed as Dante swooped in and forcibly planted him on the cemented floor. The ground cracked, audible noise echoing inside the building.

He struggled right as the surface felt like sandpaper on his skin, and by the force of the impact on his skull, his senses dulled, unknowingly transforming back to his human form.

“Jesus, kid.” Dante released his crushing grip on the younger's neck and stood up, wincing. He clicked his tongue.

Nero was panting when he turned to lay on his back, exhaustion visible on his form. He croaked out, “I... I can stand up. Just—just give me a sec.”

They've been training him for a week. The results thus far have been more or less baby steps, and his demon’s conscious instinct to harm Vergil, who's monitoring him, also wasn’t helping either.

Dante grimaced. “Right. No.”

Nero blinked and gave him a look. “That ain’t happeni-“

Tired of his apparent stubbornness, Vergil sneered, “Are you seeing yourself? Your stamina's wholly depleted.”

He sat up, agitatedly ran a hand through his short hair and glared at him. “How am I supposed to even fuckin' improve, when you two intervene before I can even get shit done?”

“If your definition of 'getting shit done' is losing control of your trigger, you’re more of an idiot than I thought.”

Nero abruptly stood and seemingly aggravated, walked towards Vergil.

Dante held his hands up. “Hey, easy,”

Nero ignored him. Instead, he stopped in front of the older twin and demanded: “How about you actually do something, huh? Does your—quote, unquote—monitoring even matter?"

“You do realize that I don’t owe you my help,” came Vergil’s reply.

“Owe? You literally ripped my arm off, almost destroyed the world, which, by the way, I helped save, and now living in the shop which I'm currently funding.”

Dante cheekily slid in a comment, “Well, my pocket has very large holes at the moment, you see...”

The two ignored him.

Vergil stilled, face remaining impassive. Then he turned his head away and murmured, “Your demon’s provoking mine.”

“What?”

The older man frowned and faced him again. “Your demonic instincts are driving me away. You and I are correlated.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You’re my son, whether you and I appreciate it or not. Without my chronic presence and your acceptance, It isn’t likely that your trigger’s going to improve.”

Nero’s look still implied that the cogs were still rusty in his head. But Dante, intrigued, hesitantly pointed a finger at his twin. “So. You’re,” he licked his lips, “Saying that since you two are related by blood, to be specific, father and son, Nero here needed your guidance after all?”

“Right,” Vergil said.

His son blinked. “I... Okay. Uh, how?”

Vergil’s frown deepened, likely annoyed at how clueless Nero is—although he knows that he awakened that part of his heritage certainly late, he isn’t a very tolerant person either way.

“Evidently, what you’re asking is how you necessarily can open yourself up to me. If you want, I can make a bucket list of things I like.”

“You fucking—”

On his left, Dante gripped Nero’s hair and snatched him backward. “Enough,” he reprimanded, pointing a look at both of them. “You two can sort through your issues later at the shop. I think It’s about damn time we eat.”

Nero stumbled out of Dante's grasp and complained, “We are not going to order pizza for the fifth time, Dante.”

“Yeah, we aren’t.”

* * *

Dante led the way inside a faux Italian pizza ‘restaurant' with a very pissed off Nero in tow, and Vergil following suit courtesy of harsh blackmail.

“Looks delightful, am I right?” he opened the double glass doors for the two.

“You’re a shithead,” Nero grumbled.

He clicked his tongue. “The point is to bond over a good meal. That's what normal families do, anyway. I think.”

He continued to usher them on an empty stall, saying, “My treat, as surprising as it is.” he pointed two fingers at them, “Go chit chat or somethin'. Be right back.”

They sat alone on opposite sofas in their stall. Nero had his elbows on the table, fingers threaded together in front of his face and staring daggers at an unnerved Vergil.

“Fuck this,” he said, after some time.

The other only blinked.

“I really can’t look at you while thinking of warm feelings.”

Vergil blinked again. “If it helps, I can’t either.”

Nero closed his eyes for a while and sighed. “How did you notice anyway?”

The other inclined his head. “Notice how?”

“That our... bond, somehow, is actually the reason why I can’t improve.”

Vergil went silent for a moment. Then he answered, “It was the same for me and Dante. The only difference was we had ourselves in instances instead of our only demon acquaintance, our deceased father.”

“Um. Okay.” he scratched his head, “But also, like, you said something about needing a good relationship...?”

He stared out the window. “Yes.”

“Then how...?”

Vergil side-eyed him. “Your question being?”

Nero frowned. “Y’know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

He didn’t want to elaborate, exactly. But at the same time, he also can’t. It's the thought that always sits at the back of his mind. Whatever they do, wherever they are, his brother always somehow meet him in the midst, bruised in many ways.

This time, It was Nero who warily gazed at him. “You know, I think you're the problem.”

“Excuse me?”

He adjusted his right palm on his cheek, resting his face on it. “You’re incredibly emotionally constipated.”

Vergil narrowed his eyes.

Anticipating a reply, Nero only continued to look at him. But Vergil wanted more than a one-liner, intrigued by Nero's stance on himself, and so he did the same.

The tension slowly crept up as they do nothing but stare at each other.

“Howdy, fellas!” jogging to them, Dante exclaimed, enunciated with an annoyingly fake cowboy accent. His right hand held a weird circular device.

Nero glowered at him.

He sat next to his twin and placed the handheld on the table. “Look at this—they said It'll beep once our order's done. Pretty cool, huh?”

No one bothered to reply though, and he averted his eyes at the two back and forth. “Hello?” he frowned. “Somethin’ happen?”

Vergil glanced at Nero, then returned back on gazing out the window.

“When’s the pizza coming?” Nero asked, seemingly avoiding the question.

Dante raised his eyebrows. “Okayyy... Well, the bald man over there said about fifteen minutes. So.”

“Cool.” then; like father, like son—he guesses, as Nero also gazed out the window, leaving him feeling stranded.

And after a more or less tense nineteen minutes (‘but the bald guy said fifteen!’, he complained) the wholeheartedly mediocre pizza came. Dante enjoyed every bit of it.

* * *

“Can I hold it? I mean, It was mine at some point.”

Dante was out on a job—very important, or so he said, which left Nero and Vergil to train by themselves.

Once Vergil held out the Yamato though, sliced a warping point and walked in their usual high-ceilinged castles, Nero can't help but bug him about the weapon that he once held for a time being.

Vergil made a show of examining the katana before staring into particularly nothing, then handed it to him silently.

“Thanks, dad.”

He abruptly looked at him oddly.

Nero's face showed amusement. Barely hidden, since he clearly didn’t try to shy it away from his face.

Vergil continued to look as Nero gripped the weapon's hilt, the younger man's eyes gleaming like appearing to see a treasure he lost. Afterward, Nero stilled, as if thinking of something to say.

“You have a distinct power to bring me blessings and havoc, Vergil.” out of the blue, he voiced.

Confused, the older man scowled.

Nero's head tilted up; eyes now fixated on his father's. “First, well, you had me. Don’t know if that's either one of those, though.”

He walked more in Vergil's space, “Then, you forgot about me. Wanna talk about it?” his fingers were tapping against the Yamato's blade.

Vergil only stood. A passerby would define his body language as something cold, resigned— except if you spend a hobby of randomly staring at your father, you'll notice that he's actively trying not to show anything.

Moving in more, Nero uttered, “That time I almost died—you know what saved me? Your signature weapon, shattered, somehow fell this much in my reach and brought my demon out, simultaneously giving me back my life.”

The younger, naive and overly disdainful version of Vergil challenging Mundus, blatantly failing and losing control of himself—the memory briefly flashed his mind, before fearing it would crack his expression.

Now their bodies only inches away, Nero said, “Then, one fuckin' normal day at my garage, you ripped my fucking arm off, and planned the world's doom.” he licked his lips, gaze roaming all over his face. “What’s next for us, father?”

His fingers continued to tap a rhythm onto the Yamato's blade, clasped by his left hand.

In a second then, the surroundings flashed as they used their devil triggers in tandem, clashing, the katana falling down and forgotten.

This instance, although Nero's against all odds—triggering by damned emotion, short-sighted on one target, acted solely by instinct—he didn’t lose control.

They flew, fought hand by hand, one after another smashed on solid walls, their mutated grunts echoing against the corridors in the process of insistently keeping up their duel until one eventually falls.

But simply falling down isn’t right up their alley. Nero can feel how his blood traverse differently than before, can feel his bond (with Vergil or his demon, he doesn’t know) strengthen, and as he overpowers the older man for only a moment, he pinned Vergil on the ground with his thighs clamped around his waist snugly, both hands crushed in a grip above him.

They both altered back to their human forms. Their staring contest continues, each desensitized with their surroundings, adrenaline not faltering, wide-eyed and fixated on the other.

“I think,” Nero started, “I think the biggest elephant in the room is why you chose to side-along with your brother instead of darting off again alone.”

Vergil flinched, level-headedness be damned when he suddenly thrashed in Nero’s grip, trying to get out of whatever his son’s unceasingly trying to talk him out of.

“I think,” Nero lowered his head and surveyed Vergil’s uncharacteristic expression, evidently getting more and more interested in breaching his stoic exterior. “That you aren’t even trying to decipher that yourself. Why you’re helping me, why you always fail to cut your brother’s neck. The truth is, you don’t even think that you owe me. In fact, you don’t owe anyone.”

“You’re trying to redeem yourself. Not even only that, but it’s that you care.”

The older man kept on attempting to break Nero’s grip. Concentrating his strength on his arms, he finally wrenched out, standing up and clenching his fists.

“Enough,” he grunted.

On the floor, Nero sat cross-legged and smiled—albeit it didn’t have any cheer. He taunted, “Is it really that hard to talk about feelings, dear father?”

“Would you stop that?” Vergil scoffed.

Nero questioned, “What?” right as he stood up and raised his eyebrows.

“We both know what you’re doing.” he sneered, his throat bobbing. “What do you want from me, Nero?”

He whispered, “I don’t want anything.” what Vergil can’t decipher though, is the peculiar look Nero wore. They danced around enough, and Vergil’s more and more unnerved the longer it lasts.

“I need you to stop lying to yourself,” he says.

It’s honest and legitimate. And as they silently gazed at each other once more, Vergil unwillingly finds that he agrees.

* * *

Nero doesn’t relent. He keeps on pushing and prodding, with Dante occasionally breaking the ice: 'Did something happen between you two, or...?’

Vergil’s had enough of it, to say the least.

On an awfully hot Sunday afternoon, while Dante’s out grumbling about popsicles and heat, Nero bewilderedly eyed a fully clothed Vergil that’s reading a book with a title he can’t understand.

Trailing down the stairs dressed in a tank top and jeans, he walked toward the reception desk. “You serious?”

When Vergil doesn’t acknowledge him and keeps on reading, he flicked the book’s hardbound cover. Vergil’s brow twitched. “You’re seriously dressing in that getup while it’s a hundred degrees right now?”

It still failed to get a reaction out of him though, so he sat on the desk and annoyingly knocked on the wood in the tune of Nirvana's come as you are.

After a minute of irritating knocking, Vergil clasped his book shut and lowered it, scowling at Nero. “Can you please stop?”

Nero's eyes widened, apparently trying to act like he's not actively bothering the older man. “What—this?” he proceeded to knock several times.

“Yes. That.”

His mouth pursed, then sat on the other side of the desk, legs dangling and now facing the other. He chewed his bottom lip. “It’s hot.”

Vergil blinked. “Interesting observation.”

“Aren’t you hot?”

Vergil didn’t reply. He isn’t an idiot—he knew what would be a normal conversation from Nero, and nagging him about the weather isn’t It.

Instead, he questioned, “Aren’t you tired, Nero?”

“Tired of what?”

He inclined his head, “I doubt you’re blind to how you're acting.”

A small smirk tugged on Nero’s lips. “Cutting to the chase, huh?”

Thing is though, Vergil just doesn’t have the energy to shut down each of Nero’s advances. It was unnerving the first couple of times, but as the kid doesn’t really probe much further than he already has, he’s gotten quite accustomed to it.

Curiously then, Vergil hovered his left hand an inch away from Nero’s own, right at the edge of the desk. He asked, “Can I touch your hand?”

Noticeably taken aback, Nero apprehensively responded, “Well. You—uh, that’s nice of you to ask. Last time you just... ripped it off.” his fingers twitched. “Since you actually asked for permission this time, I—sure?”

A warm, light grasp covered Nero’s right hand after. Vergil pivoted his arm so his palm faced up, and gingerly pulled it towards him.

“Wait, you only said touch—”

Vergil pressed a thumb over Nero’s pulse, right on his wrist. “This is a better way of determining one’s emotion, rather than continuously trying to decipher their facial expression,” he states.

“Uh, okay?”

He slightly tightened his grip, and Nero’s eyes became wary as he glanced on his outstretched arm, then Vergil’s face.

“Nero,” Vergil started, “Honestly, what do you think you’re trying to get out of me?” The rhythm beneath his thumb slightly quickened.

With his father’s daunting gaze and the increasing tightness of the grip on his hand, a reply really wasn’t his first objective. Instead, he tugged his hand back—but Vergil’s grip only tightened. Nero looked incredulously at him, eyebrows knitting together.

Below Vergil’s thumb, the pulse now noticeably sped up. He eyed their linked hands, “A rabid demon’s heartbeat usually beats in rapid succession if their instinct detects danger.” he directed his stare right back at Nero, “Of course, it’s the same for humans, too.”

His grasp tightened, once more. “Tell me, how do you feel right now?”

Nero began to stand up, left hand now holding Vergil’s wrist considerably tight enough to leave a bruise, then harshly tried to pull back his arm. The older man’s grip only worsened, budging solely an inch.

He snarled, “Can you ask me what I want right now, instead? Because It’s for you to fucking let me go!”

Even though he’s fully aware of the supervision on his pulse, and as much as he wants to slow it down, his insistent rage did nothing to do so. He hates how Vergil, even only snapped back this one time, had the upper hand with only a few simple inquiries.

Face remaining impassive, Vergil stood up and used his right hand to press four fingers on the side of Nero’s neck, right over the carotid artery. He attentively placed his thumb on his throat—and was pleased, as he can clearly feel the younger man’s Adam’s apple bobbing.

He informs, “Reluctantly swallowing—a sign of anxiety.” then he asked, almost like a rhetorical question, “Am I making you anxious, Nero?”

Vergil stepped onward, continuing until Nero’s lower back hit the heavy table. Nero unwittingly loosened the grasp he had on Vergil’s wrist and It fell, but as he’s now slowly leaning back, both of his arms instead dropped on the desk’s surface, elbows bending outward. The grasps on his neck and hand were still as firm as ever.

Leaning close to each other, their height difference was apparent. The two inches Vergil had on Nero forced the younger man to look up at him through his eyelashes, head refusing to tilt up. As petty as It is, It agitated Nero further.

But as Nero felt his father’s fingers on his neck soften and trail to his jawline, almost like caressing him, his anger deliberately faded away into wary confusion. Vergil continued to move to his chin, fingers curled underneath it and his thumb tenderly shifting to his bottom lip.

Nero’s lips were dry. Unconsciously, he quickly swiped his tongue to wet it—until it accidentally touched Vergil’s thumb—and he recoiled back, blinking and inhaling sharply, suddenly losing his confused trance.

Acting out of impulse, his left hand found Vergil’s shoulder and pushed, yelling, “Let me go, you bastard!” and briefly wondered if the man planted his boots underneath the floorboards, as he barely budged at all.

As Nero was acting out, Vergil twisted his wrist upward. He proceeded to gently thread his fingers between Nero’s, clasping it and gingerly squeezing until it provoked a reaction out of him.

Nero’s eyes falteringly blinked in succession. He was uncharacteristically left with nothing to blurt out, nothing to move about, and utterly sinking under Vergil’s uneasy stare.

“I’m going to ask again,” Vergil starts, then questioned, “How do you feel, right now?”

But as he eased his son’s head upwards using the hand already grasping his chin, he catches the look on his face—and found that Nero’s questioning that himself.

Vergil let his hold on Nero loosen, and watched as he numbly stumbled away and walked out Devil May Cry’s door.

* * *

A dilemma is what it really is, Nero thinks.

He’s alone in an abandoned church with a staggering amount of floor levels and a large, open area in the middle. Treating It like a private playground, he practiced his normal combat, placing various items in different locations and attempting to crush each one in quick successions.

But to say the least, he isn’t successful at fooling himself. Killing a bunch of nitwit demons are hardly harder than crushing stacks of Coca Cola cans to oblivion, and using it as a medium to distract himself from certain things also isn’t working.

Halting his movements, he ran a hand down his face and grunted, “Alright. Fuck it.”

The next second, he used his Devil Trigger. And as he still has quite a few things lying around, he struck them again in addition to flying towards the not-so-sturdy chandelier that hanged atop the high ceiling, pretending it was a cover to shield him from the inanimate objects he placed around the building’s levels.

As mundane as those enemies can get, his focus doesn’t relent. Previously, while in this state, he consistently had genuine trouble controlling his trigger form—but as he fluidly moved on from one to another, the thought didn’t occur to him.

On his fourth strike on the sixth floor, this time landing on a Samsung 48-inch curved LCD TV with a cracked screen, he retreated to his high ground cover. While attempting to swing onto another target, the chandelier’s chain snapped, and he swore, “Shit!” as his wings got caught around the heavy chain and roughly dropped down alongside the lighting fixture.

The chandelier landed first, its numerous light bulbs creating a shrill sound as It broke, shards scattering everywhere. Nero, thanking the heavens above, crashed near the chandelier’s rear, mostly avoiding all the sharp glass.

The impact didn’t hurt less, though. The ground beneath him formed deep cracks, and he winced while trying to stand up. Looking at his body, he searched for apparent bruises or scratches, but he didn’t find any. He would breathe a sigh of relief—if he didn’t appear outright stunned.

“Holy shit,” he hushed. He clenched his fists in his hair and walked nonsensically, “Holy shit!” he repeated.

Every time he’d use his Devil trigger alone, he was always careful to avoid direct damage. In countless instances, even falling from only a two-story structure, he finds his control always faltering, transforming back to his human self.

This time, however, now falling directly on hard concrete from a hundred feet above, he finds himself still being in his demon form.

How he did it, exactly, he doesn’t want to know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter count is now a question mark. this was originally written as an excuse for smut, but as you can see...

Stepping inside Devil May Cry, the first thing Nero sees is Vergil holding half a cigarette between his middle and pointer finger, placing it against his lips and hollowing his cheeks, the smoke blurring his face as he exhales. He was still in his previous sitting arrangement, book nestled on his palm. 

Nero leaned on the door frame, strangely appreciating the sight. 

Vergil glanced at him, then kept on reading again. 

Seeing his father’s quiet acknowledgment, Nero somehow felt compelled to tell him what he’d accomplished. But he isn’t sure why his throat was dry, not sure why speaking directly at him was daunting. 

So, he pretended to consider his fingernails as a very interesting thing to watch as he says, “You know, I...” he faltered, and went over It again, “I didn’t lose my control. When I triggered—earlier.” 

Smoke swirled out of Vergil’s mouth as he exhaled once more. He put out the cigarette on an ashtray he kept on the table. “Congratulations,” he told him. 

Nero met his eyes. “That’s all you have to say?” 

“What would you want me to say?” 

He parted his lips to retort back—before grasping _why_ he even craved to talk to Vergil in the first place. As he averted his gaze, his skin reddened. 

“Never mind,” he says, slightly horrified, and began to walk up the stairs. 

Vergil perplexedly watched him until he's no longer in sight. Keenly intrigued by Nero's demeanor, he put some thought on a suspicion while tapping his cigarette a few more times on the tray. 

He put his belongings away before coming upstairs himself. The door to Nero’s room was slightly ajar and he let himself in without knocking, catching Nero off-guard—his hands were tangled in his hair, but quickly dropped It as he saw the older man. 

Staring incredulously at Vergil, he demanded, “The _fuck_ are you doing here?” 

Ah, he was right. “You know, I wouldn’t have brushed you off if I’d known you wanted my approval.” 

Nero’s face now looked _crimson._ “Shut up,” he grimaced, utterly embarrassed. 

Instead of replying, Vergil only showed amusement. Nonetheless, it agitated Nero further. His presence right at the door was also awfully disconcerting, and as much as he wants to shrug past him and go somewhere else, the kitchen, _anywhere,_ he can’t. 

His dilemma worsened, though, when Vergil pushed the door closed. The sound was achingly audible in the silence. 

“We should talk,” Vergil spoke. 

Nero squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, clearly _not_ into that idea. Trying to evade It, he informed him, “In case you didn’t realize, that's _exactly_ what we’re already doing this past week.” 

“Do you _exactly_ call that talking?” 

“We exchange words, you ask questions, I ask questions. Do you _not_ call that talking?” 

But Vergil doesn’t really ever tolerate Nero's insufferable ramblings, thus, he cut to the chase: “You must know what It means to successfully retain your demon form.” 

Nero exasperatedly sighed. “Y’know what,” he uttered as he sat on the edge of his bed, arms resting on his knees. “Want another father and son bonding moment? Fine!” 

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

Annoyed, Nero scowled at him. “Are you implying our relationship improved? ‘Cause I beg to differ.” 

“Would you deliberately ask for your father's approval then?” 

Nero's jaw tightened. At this point, being in denial's only going to dampen things. But he can’t really think of anything else to reply, so, “Fuck you.” he said. 

Nero's rude reply didn’t deter Vergil (It never does), and he walked toward the wall parallel to Nero’s bed, resting his back on It and crossing his arms. “I assume you didn’t do complex techniques while in trigger yet,” he concluded. 

“Yeah, so?” 

“That’ll effectively cut your trigger gauge in half, and possibly render you dead weight while in combat.” 

Vergil _almost_ had goosebumps at the glaring look Nero gave him. 

“Again, fuck you.” Nero sneered. “Also, do you expect me to blindly listen to you when you still haven’t explained It clearly?” 

Vergil inclined his head, questioning, “Do you want a more coherent explanation of how relationships work?” 

“Yes, but no. To be exact, you and Dante. You didn’t answer before, so I’ll just ask you directly—you two don’t really have the _friendliest_ brotherhood going on.” 

Apparently waiting for a continuation, Vergil blankly looked at him. Nero was waiting for a reply, so he did the same. After a while— 

“ _Oh my fucking god_ ,” Nero infuriatingly cussed, ducking his head and covering it with his hands momentarily. He challenged, “Why the _fuck_ do you get so _f_ _ucking_ annoying when your brother comes in the picture?” 

Vergil remained silent. 

“Alright,” Nero said, “I’m gonna—I’m gonna fucking say this to you _bit_ by _bit,_ since I’m actually fucking tired of you not answering my fucking question.” 

He continued, “You,” he pointed a finger at him, “and Dante,” he pointed somewhere at his left, “interact like, this _much,”_ he proceeded to pinch his pointer finger and thumb in front of his face, “in a course of a day, a week, whatever—all I know is that you guys don’t typically spend your time together, like, at all.” 

Nero furrowed his eyebrows and licked his lips, “And you’re expecting me to believe that you two are the model relationship that I supposedly should take notes on?” 

“I didn't propose that,” Vergil opposed. 

“Except you did.” Nero said, then quoted him, “ _Dante and I had each other in instances—_ bla bla bla, so on and so forth. I'm starting to doubt your credibility here.” 

Vergil, looking like he'd been fed with rotten flesh, yielded. He looked away, saying, “Dante and I...” but trailed off. 

“Yeah?” 

Vergil cleared his throat. “We don’t... hate each other, despite how you think.” 

“That doesn’t answer anything,” 

It was perplexing, really. 

Nero called, “Vergil,” he wet his lips, “we aren’t getting anywhere here.” 

The older man sighed. After a while, he looked at Nero and started at last, “The Yamato, when It fell in Fortuna _—_ I was in the underworld, but not as myself.” 

“Go on...” 

Vergil frowned at him. Though, he went on, turning his head away again, “I was chained to a certain devil contrary to my will. During that time, someone was insistently pulling against that chain for years, as if wishing for my freedom.” 

He let his eyelids close momentarily. “I distinctly remember how mournful It was. However, It was also recognizably warm.” 

As he paused, he pivoted his head back when he felt a hand tug at his left wrist. Both of his arms were still crossed, but as Nero insistently tugged, he let it go. 

Confused, Vergil asked, “What are you doing?” 

Nero, cradling his father’s hand in his own, began to press his thumb at the pulse. “I’m only doing what you’ve been suggesting,” he answered. He stared at their linked hands for a moment, then slyly looked up at Vergil. 

“It’s faster than normal.” He commented, gaze roaming all over his father's face. 

Vergil glowered at him. Oh, how insidious he is. 

“Go on, please continue.” 

Knowing how awfully hypocritical It was to wrench his hand back, Vergil only stilled. He briefly thought to cease talking again, but as he’d started then, watching Nero’s eyes glint, he knew there won’t be a getaway, not with his adamant character. 

Looking at his son disdainfully, he carried on, “That presence _—_ It was the sole reason for my independence from then on. It cracked the demon’s clutch on me, and I surfaced out of the appalling creature I was.” 

His eyes narrowed. “Then I returned to the human world deliriously, and sought to take what was mine.” 

Right then, although Nero decidedly ignored the apparent taunt, something glazed over his face. His expression was like an open book, the imaginary cogs turning seamlessly in his brain. 

He asserted, eyes wide, “That presence—It was Dante.” his grip on Vergil's wrist tightened, “Am I right?” 

Vergil was about to reply—if the door didn’t suddenly open and Dante walked inside, wearing soiled clothes, holding two unopened popsicles and one sucked in his mouth. 

He halted his steps once he saw them, looking like he's trying to place a finger on what the two were doing. His eyes lingered on their hand-holding. 

Slowly sliding the treat out of his mouth, he offered them, “Um. Anyone want a popsicle?” and cautiously shook his hand that held the treat. 

* * *

“Alright, so... what exactly were the two of you were doing?” 

They’re now sitting on the upstairs lounge, sucking on their popsicles. Vergil was standing, though. Two dirty jute sacks were placed near the ratty couch. 

“I think the real question here is why you waited until 8 PM to go home, and that you’re caked in dirt.” Nero retorted. 

Dante raised a finger, “Ah.” he winked, saying, “That—that there,” he pointed at the jute sacks, “is our food.” 

His twin raised an eyebrow, taking a bite off his treat. “Food?” 

He replied, “This mud and stink didn’t come from nothing, you know. I got them as a complimentary from helping out a farm somewhere. I didn’t really need It as I don’t actually _need_ food, but the bald guy was insistent, so...” 

Nero questioned, “A farm?” 

Dante frowned. “This isn’t twenty questions, guys. It’s meat and vegetables. It’s edible.” 

“Yeah, that’s the thing. How do you expect to eat It? Raw?” Nero asked, skeptical. 

Dante squinted. “Have you ever heard of... cooking?” 

“What the fuck?” Nero cussed. 

“What?” taken aback, Dante asked. 

Nero’s jaw slightly dropped, side-eyeing him. His face was very doubtful. On the side, Vergil distastefully stared at his brother. 

After seconds of being judged in scrutiny, Dante rolled his eyes. He said, “Okay. I get It. You guys need to stop staring at me like that; It’s hurting my ego.” 

He changed the topic, “Anyway, let’s get back to what’s goin’ on earlier.” 

When Vergil started to walk away, he discarded the popsicle stick on the floor and firmly pressed his hands on his shoulders, saying, “Oh, no, no, no, brother. You’re gonna stay here.” 

Vergil sneered, “I don’t feel like talking.” 

“Yeah, he does that,” Nero commented. 

Dante’s hold on Vergil remained, saying, “Well, tough luck. ‘Cause don’t think I’ve been blind to that weird... _thing_ that’s irking between you two.” 

Nero snorted. 

“Also,” Dante continued, “What’s up with the, uh, touchy touchy?” 

Nero replied, “The hand-holding?” 

“Yeah, that.” 

“I was checking his pulse.” he nonchalantly said. 

While eyeing Nero in his confusion, Vergil shrugged off his grip. “I’m not dealing with this,” he scoffed and went downstairs. 

Dante ignored him and averted back his attention to Nero, terribly intrigued. “Why?” 

“I wanted to.” 

“You just wanted to casually check your old man's heartbeat?” 

“Yeah,” 

Now that Vergil isn’t here though, Nero wanted to interrogate Dante. He stood up first, looking to see where his father went. Peering over the railing, he saw him on his usual spot, reading beside the reception desk. 

Nero ushered his uncle, “C’mon, let’s go to my room. I want to ask you something.” and went inside. 

Dante followed, although reluctant. “Sure?” 

Once they were both inside, Nero quietly closed the door. He asked, “Do you love Vergil?” 

Dante’s eyebrows skyrocketed. He blinked and opened mouth to say, “Uh.” 

Nero quizzed him more, “Do you love your brother enough to destroy a demon’s power over him?” 

Baffled, Dante went on making a confused face. “What are you getting at?” 

“Just answer,” 

The older man blinked again. “Well, I—I did name my shop Devil May Cry since I cried, well, when I thought Vergil died. So, I mean, I do love him. For the most part.” 

“When did he apparently die?” 

Dante scratched his head. He looked somewhere to the side and said, “That was a long time ago.” 

“Details, please?” 

He reverted his stare to Nero, frowning. “Why are you so insistent about this?” 

“Remember when Vergil said that I needed to accept him? So that I won’t lose control of my trigger anymore?” 

He thought for a second. “Oh. That day we went to the pizza place?” 

“Yeah, that.” Nero momentarily looked resentful, but continued, “When you were ordering, I asked him how he knew the bond thing’s the problem.” he quoted Vergil, “ _Dante and I had each other in instances_ —exactly what he said, by the way, when he told me how his own trigger improved.” 

“He said that?” 

Nero wet his lips, “Do you want to ask him instead?” 

Dante’s lips pursed. “Fair enough,” but still confused, he questioned, “What’s your point here?” 

Something dawned on Nero’s face. He muttered, “Oh, you don’t know anything at all, do you.” 

He knew Vergil had a stick up his ass, but he didn’t know that It was shoved _so far_ up there. The twins spent monthsstuck together in the underworld, with their longing history and all, and what did they talk about then? Dante’s former questionable fashion choices? 

“If you would just get to the point, I wouldn’t be,” he affirmed. 

Nero sat in the middle of his bed, legs crossed. He suggested, “Sit. Be comfortable, we’re going to talk for a while here.” 

“Okay?” Dante sat on the edge of the bed. 

“First, I’ll ask you this—Vergil said something about being in the underworld, but not as himself. Know what he meant by that? 

Dante’s gaze trailed off somewhere momentarily. “I can’t believe he told you that.” he murmured. 

“So, you _do_ know something?” 

“Yeah. Well, he all of a sudden appeared on my mirror, so that’s that.” he scratched his growing stubble, “Then he came out of that mirror and demanded a duel, so there’s also that.” 

“If you just answer my question, we’ll be progressing much faster,” Nero complained. 

Dante held his hands up. “Okay, okay! Jesus.” he complied, “There’s this _shitty_ devil prince called Mundus, which I assume he met when he fell. By falling, I mean—falling into the depths of hell. I won’t say how he fell, that’s another story.” 

He went on, “Anyway, my brother was held captive by _that_ guy _,_ though I didn’t realize It later on. He looked very different—wore hella armor, the whole demonic shebang. I only knew It was Vergil when he challenged me again—which I won, by the way—and his half of our amulet fell.” 

Nero asked, “What amulet?” 

“It was gifted by our mother on Vergil and I’s eighth birthday. I gave mine to Trish,” he answered. 

The younger man nodded, then circled his hand, urging him to continue. 

He shrugged, shaking his head. “That’s It.” 

“Oh.” 

Dante combed his hair back and shifted to face Nero further. He proposed, “Alright. I think It’s time I interrogate you here.” 

Nero guessed, “Are you going to ask me why I questioned your brotherly love?” 

He scrunched his nose. “Yeah, actually.” 

Sitting in a crouch, Nero’s back was starting to feel stiff, and he stretched his arms up for a while. 

Then he said, “Assuming by the ‘ _I named my shop Devil May Cry since I cried when I thought my brother died’_ thing, you mourned him and thus, was very sad.” 

“Right,” 

“Okay. Well, now I know that you’re _definitely_ the reason why Vergil’s still alive right now.” 

Dante’s eyebrows furrowed. “Come again?” 

Nero told him, “To paraphrase our earlier conversation, Vergil said something about ‘a warm presence that continued to tug against the demon’s chain on him’. It continued on for years until he finally broke free.” 

He stuck his tongue in his cheek. “Then he blatantly said that he returned here to abduct my arm, that fucking bastard.” 

“Wait, what?” 

Nero scoffed. “I know, right?” 

Dante shook his head, “No, no, no. The one before that.” 

“Oh, the presence thing? Yeah, I figured It was you.” 

“ _What?”_

Nero licked his lips, “Who else would It be? You know anyone else who loves him so much that It destroyed an, I assume, powerful demon’s hold?” 

“No?” 

“Then, you have your answer.” 

As Dante digested the information and contemplated It, his expression was achingly similar to a person being told they’re adopted. He scratched his beard. 

Seemingly amused, Nero asked, “You okay there?” 

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Dante pressed on. 

The younger man tilted his head. “Well, It _is_ Vergil.

Dante sighed. “Again, a fair point.” 

* * *

Nero knew something was up since the 'presence' talk. 

For one, Dante's usual pizza take-out bizarrely turned into bi-weekly Chipotle orders, which turns out, is Vergil's favorite quick meal. 

For two, he saw a deeply scowling Vergil sitting on his usual spot, reading his book, but with the addition of his brother slicking his hair back with gel. 

For three, at about 10 AM, he opened his door and found Dante in the lounge solving a crossword puzzle, wearing his hair in a _man bun._ Why; Nero asked. To which Dante replied, _'Vergil said It bothers him when It covers my face too much'_ to which Nero also replied— 

“What the fuck,” 

Dante shrugged, “I mean, s'not bad.” he tucked a stray strand behind his ear. 

“You changed the hairstyle that you haven’t changed for at least _forty years_ because Vergil told you so?” 

He shrugged again. “It's not like I cut It. That—I would’ve disagreed on. Besides, It’s hot.” 

Nero just warily looked at Dante for a moment. 

Instead of judging him further, he walked downstairs to get a snack off the kitchen, only to find Vergil _cooking._

It was an insane day, he also finds. 

He halted, watching Vergil brush butter over a rib-eye steak mildly sizzling on a pan. A saucepan containing citrus fruits were also burning beside It. 

With both aromas mixing deliciously, Nero's nose almost flared. 

“How long are you going to stand there?” Vergil asked, back to him. 

Ah, he needs to stop strangely staring at mundane things Vergil does. His occasional cigarette, for example. 

He was originally going to brush him off, but instead, he offered, “You want help?” he looked at his nails, playing with it. 

Vergil replied, “Grab a gin, vermouth, and the most awful liquor you can find on Dante's collection.” 

“Uh, okay. What's vermouth?” 

“If he doesn’t have It, any extremely bitter wine will do.” 

Nero walked back into the short path connecting to the lobby, eyeing the numerous alcohol displayed on the wall. 

He grabbed the gin, then opened and sniffed various bottles. He took the one that cautiously smelled like battery acid, grimacing. 

No bottle had 'vermouth' labeled on them, so he opened the first wine he laid eyes on, muttering, “I mean, he probably does this anyway,” and tilted the bottle down his mouth. 

“You have problems, Nero.” Dante (thankfully, his hair was back down now) said warily, walking towards him with his puzzle still in hand. He placed It on a table. 

Nero choked, coughing, and struggled to twist the cap back on. 

Dante took It from him instead, inspecting the unlabelled bottle and bringing It to his nose. He then made a face, saying, “Drinking vermouth at _ten_ in the morning? Jesus christ.” 

“That’s— _cough_ —ver— _cough_ —mouth?” 

“Wait. You drank it without knowing It was vermouth?” 

Nero was still wetly coughing, and Dante compassionately patted his back firmly. Nero’s balance wavered in between the hard pats, the two bottles he held threatening to fall. 

Finally, he stopped coughing, though his throat was still inflamed and scratchy. He snatched the wine back and hoarsely said, “Thank _fuck_ you abandoned that man bun.” 

“Yeah, well, I got over It.” 

Nero walked back inside the kitchen and saw that three servings of glorious rib eye steak were cooling off on the counter, delicately garnished on Barney-themed plastic plates. Three clean cocktail glasses were also beside It. 

“Here’s the alcohol you wanted,” he called, dropping three bottles near the food. 

Vergil brought the saucepan over. He picked up the bottles and measurably poured each in the glasses, draining the fruit syrup off the pan, mixing It with the concoction of liquor. He finished preparing as he dropped ice cubes in each. The drink smelled like an abomination with a dash of orange. 

Dante, back on the wall, was also watching his brother arrange the cocktails. He pointed at It, saying, “Is that a _Hanky Panky?”_

“Yes,” Vergil answered, grabbing a plate of steak and a drink, then walked past them. They both watched him settle on the reception desk, book in hand, gingerly sipping and eating his food with a bent fork. 

Dante sauntered over the counter, gratuitously eyeing the meal. “I’m hopefully assuming these are ours,” he said. 

“Unless Vergil intentionally made three separate servings for himself, I sure hope so,” Nero replied, his mouth nearly salivating. 

They both leaned on the counter, bent forks in hand, and started to dig in. 

“Damn, _”_ Dante swore, chewing his steak. “How did you know Vergil cooked?” 

“I don’t,” he replied, also eating his portion. “I went in here for a snack, then I saw him over the stove buttering a steak.” 

Half of Nero’s steak was now eaten, which revealed Barney making a peace sign on the plate. He frowned. 

Noticing the issue, Dante spoke, “It was a gift from Morrison. I think he was pitying my lack of proper dining utensils.” 

"By giving you a set of plastic Barney bowls and bent forks?” 

“Oh, he didn’t give me the bent forks. That’s my fault.” 

Nero didn’t even want to know how he did that. Instead, he started, “So,” he took a piece of meat in his mouth, “You and Vergil,” 

Dante sipped his drink. “Mhm?” 

“Don’t _mhm_ me. The Chipotle take-outs? Styling his hair? The fuck’s up with that?” 

Dante kept on chewing his food. 

Nero didn’t appreciate that. “You know, you’re about as insufferable as your brother.” 

The older man swallowed, saying, “Well, compared to your _touchy touchy,_ I’m only trying to get on your father’s good side.” 

“Are you referring to the hand-holding?” 

“Yes, I’m referring to the hand-holding.” 

Nero defended, “I was just checking his pulse!” 

“Alone in your room, dim lighting, looking like a deer in headlights when I walked in?” 

Nero stopped eating, cautiously looking at Dante. “What are you getting at?” 

Dante shrugged, combing his hair back. “I’m just sayin’,” 

He shook his head. “No, no, no. I think you’re implying something that distresses me deeply.” 

Dante crookedly smirked, eyebrows knitting up. “I ain’t implying nothin’. That’s on you.” 

“Oh, _fuck you.”_

“Should you say that to your father instead?” 

Nero’s jaw dropped. “ _Oh my fucking god,”_ he also dropped his fork on the Barney plate. It clattered. 

“You,” he wet his lips and pointed at Dante, “Are going to fucking wash the dishes.” he declared, and walked away.

To his chagrin though, he can hear his uncle snickering at his back. 

“Sheesh. I’m only kidding!” Dante laughed some more, “Hey!”

Nero pivoted his right arm upward, then fiercely curved his middle finger to the heavens above. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you folks enjoyed the dialogue, i liked writing it =)
> 
> the 'Dante's former questionable fashion choices line' is a reference to Vergil affectionately calling Dante's DMC3 gun holster as a "nipple strap" when they were stuck in hell.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any mistakes will be edited later, I'm currently publishing on my phone =)

“Jackpot!”

Dante slashed Rebellion through a horde of obnoxious demons rushing at them, which led to their discolored blood painting streaks on his coat.

At his back, Vergil eyed his stained clothing while effortlessly slicing a demon's head off, saying, “If you're starting to think I’ll do laundry again, I won’t.”

Before he can even look at Nero, who’s also hacking with his Red Queen, “No chance, Dante.” he'd grunted.

“What?!” gunning down a swarm of bee-like flying devils, Dante defended himself, “I didn’t even say anything!”

Morrison finally gave them a high-paying job—which was, as Nero said, a _‘Damn perfect time for testing my trigger’s potential’_.

They’re currently sweeping through a deserted plaza. The place was infested with thousands of throbbing demon eggs that hatched months before, but since the infestation started to spread outside the area, a report was at last given.

Throughout the whole mission, though, Nero felt like every move, tactic, _everything_ , really, was being monitored by Vergil's eerily watchful eye. But now that he's proven to keep his trigger in check, he didn't know if it unnerved or annoyed him.

As Nero killed his most probably thousandth victim, he finds himself complaining, “I’m genuinely getting tired of these fuckers,”

Dante agreed, “Yeah, they aren’t even thinning out. Kudos to their mother, though.”

“I... really did not need that imagery in my head, Dante.” He winced, crushing the neck of a half-dead demon on the ground with his boot.

Vergil, also exasperated by now, suggested, “We should break through the eggs that’s blocking the entrance. Nonsensically slaughtering these creatures are getting us nowhere.”

Inside the huge building, there houses apparently two high-ranked devils—which they assumed were a sex-crazed pair because, well, the entrance was even clogged with their disgusting offspring.

“Alright,” Nero complied, sprinting against the enemies and to the doorway. “Get your asses on here; we’re gonna slice through It!”

The twins fended off another wave of hasty enemies before darting to the building, ignoring the various bloody limbs pathetically clinging to the tail of their coats.

“On one,” Dante said, shifting to an aggressive stance. “two,” they all ran, “three!”

They jumped, slashed through the crowd of pulsating eggs, the yellowish juices bursting out of their respective dome-shaped houses.

Shielding their faces from the fluids, they severed the veins tying all the embryo’s frail lifeline, continuing to repeatedly do so until finally, the building’s interior started to reveal Itself.

The structure inside wasn’t up to normal integrity standards. The ledges are past falling off, the support poles had cracked—in other words, the building was truly in its last season.

A sizable altar was also placed between the two half-intact stairs leading up the second floor, that was, again, blocked off with eggs.

But really, the building’s ratty interior design wasn’t what _actually_ caught their attention.

It was the two ten feet tall devils grinding at each other in front of the altar. They emitted a very strange scent.

Dante squeezed his eyes closed and grasped his face, blocking the so-called very strange scent from his nose. _"Holy mother of Jesus,”_ he cursed.

His brother shared the same sentiment, as he also distastefully eyed the beasts. They are, evidently, trying to make more babies.

Nero, on the other hand, and much to Dante’s bewilderment, was eyeing them as if he’s _ecstatic._ He cracked his knuckles.

His uncle warily glanced at him, saying, “Nero, your tastes are proving to be very questionable.”

The younger man’s stare was still attentively fixated on the beasts. He licked his lips. “Shut up, old man.”

He then abruptly sprinted toward the altar, shouting, “Hey, you fucks!” effectively ruining the intense bonding moment the two were having.

The demons roared, their scaled bodies shifting hue from a holo-esque palette to one rather resembling a cockroach.

“Kid,” Dante frowned, trailing after him. “You really oughta stop barging in ahead of us, you're stealing my spotlight.”

Instead of retorting in response, Nero jumped up, hastily used his Devil Trigger, casting a flash of light and momentarily blinding the creatures up front, as being used to living in a dark area.

But normally, before you trigger, you assess the enemy's strength first—due to how draining it can be.

“Keep an eye on him,” Vergil told his brother, unsheathing the Yamato and joining in the fight not a second later.

Dashing to the beasts and striking to where he thinks the female demon’s weak spots are, he asked, “Isn’t that your job, bro?”

The monster pair thrashed, their scaly limbs desperately trying to snag their attackers. A beam followed through coming from their gooey mouths, and the twins only jumped and galloped through the attack, but Nero decidedly thought It’s worth spending his energy on various winged mid-air tricks.

Despite ordering Dante to watch Nero, Vergil’s gaze was still keeping cautious tabs on him, lingering on every aggression he did.

Nero now stabbed the male demon’s left eye, resulting It to voice a deafening screech. His distorted voice sneered, “Ah, my bad. You might need to get that checked out, buddy,”

“Sheesh,” Dante held Ebony and Ivory up, shooting at the demon’s right eye. “You’re making me look incompetent here, kid,” he teased.

They went on to attack the beasts, with Dante finally having his own spotlight, yelling again, _‘Jackpot!’_ to which Vergil responded by slicing the throat of his target and effectively killing it, too fed up by now to try and reprimand him for the stolen catchphrase.

When the female beast lifelessly fell down, Its companion began to change Its stance, roaring, hue rapidly shifting back to the holo-esque It was before.

Nero, appearing to be agitated, single-mindedly flew up and faced the devil right at Its face. He swirled around Its body then, fiercely dragging Red Queen along the tough scales as he ascended down in circles.

“You keep that up,” Dante said, continuously attacking the beast’s legs, trying to stutter Its balance. It isn’t working. “Any second now...” he scowled.

Although the devil was still, Its ambiance was pulsating with a reddish aura. Its eyes were closed as if concentrating.

Vergil’s eyes grew wide, and he swiftly used his Devil Trigger to fly up, attempting to alert the two. “Nero! Dante! Back off!”

“Huh?” Annoyed, Dante muttered, “But I was _this_ close...” nonetheless, he hopped backward, trusting his brother.

To his confusion, Vergil straight on glided toward the altar. He was about to say something—before realizing that Nero’s still cleaving the demon down in his trigger form.

He faintly hears Vergil calling, “Nero, listen to me!” when Nero, mid-air, was struck in his stomach by the demon, unleashing Its charged force. On the absolute first touch of the strike, Nero didn’t even try to move—as he’d already transformed back to his human form, unconscious.

Nero crashed from support pole to support pole until eventually, his back was forcibly hammered on a wall, sliding down, forming profound cracks behind him.

Vergil promptly piloted himself to his son, disregarding all the debris falling. He then cradled Nero’s bruised body in his arms—but he can’t look for further injuries, as the ceiling was now _collapsing down._

With the sound of the building being inherently demolished and the devil hollering, Dante cautiously yelled, “Vergil, look out!”

He hastily dodged a large piece of falling wreckage, careful to shield Nero’s limp body from anything. The piece landed directly in front of him, and while the demon thrashed again, Its tail hit the half-intact stairs, the debris coming to crash down towards them.

Before he can move, another row of debris descended in a straight line, blocking his view from Dante.

He can hear his brother shouting, “Bring Nero back home, Vergil! Don’t you dare come back, alright?! I can handle this fucker myself!”

Vergil tightened his hold on Nero, flew up to the collapsed ceiling, sliced a warping point, and went through.

* * *

Nero deliriously woke up to his own bed with Vergil sitting beside him, a cigarette between his lips.

“Your smoking’s making my head ache.” he muttered, still half-asleep.

Vergil pinched the menthol cigarette between his thumb and pointer finger, inhaled, and blew the smoke towards him.

“I doubt this is what’s causing your misery,” his father said, but put out the cigarette anyway.

Nero wondered, “Where’s Dante?”

“Killing the devil you failed to kill,” Vergil answered.

“He’s still in there?”

“Evidently,”

Nero blinked. “Oh, you brought me here.”

“Evidently,”

Nero glared at him for a while. Then he asked, “What happened?”

“You fell.”

He flicked Vergil’s arm. “Stop that.”

“If you would’ve listened to me then, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Nero furrowed his eyebrows. “Listen to what?”

Vergil clasped his son’s hand in his own. “When I insisted to talk with you.”

“Why are you holding my hand?”

Vergil started, “I had a suspicion,”

“What’s suspicious about my hand?”

“I had a suspicion—that since you didn’t have anyone with a demonic heritage when you were young, the bond recipient may need to be in chronic close contact.” Vergil subtly tightened his grip, “And I was right.”

Nero looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he questioned, “Aren’t you my bond recipient?”

“Yes.”

His fingers were still hanging between his father’s clasp, and he numbly curved It to fit in perfectly. “When did you notice It?”

Vergil answered, “That time I held your hand—I asked how you felt then. You didn’t respond, but I loosely knew what was on your mind.”

“And when I walked away?”

“The bond quickly let go. As you’ve known, my brother and I’s weren’t at all like that.”

Nero observed their intertwined hands, quietly asking, “Will I heal faster if you hold my hand in my sleep?”

“You’re planning to sleep again?”

It was eerily calm, waking up next to Vergil. In his unhinged state, he figured asking his father to stay until he wakes up wasn’t at all that bad.

So, he did, “Can you stay until I wake up?”

Vergil’s lips slightly pulled up. “And hold your hand while I'm at It?”

“Yeah,” his eyes were starting to close now.

“As you wish.”

And once again, he finds himself unconscious within Vergil’s grasp.

* * *

It was about 2 AM when the bedroom door opened, Dante walking in with a glass of water, a bottle of painkillers and some medical supplies he bought.

Vergil was now sitting beside Nero’s head, back on the headboard, his right hand carrying a book. His left hand was still linked in his son’s.

“You know,” Dante said, “I thought the hand-holding was a one-time thing, not an _actual_ thing.”

Nero stirred, waking up from his uncle’s ramblings. “You jealous?” he taunted, but removed his hand from Vergil’s grasp and attempted to sit up. It didn’t work.

Dante placed the supplies on the bed and tried to twist the painkiller's cap with one hand. It didn’t work. Vergil took it from him instead, opened It, took two pills, holding It out for Nero.

Nero took the pills. Dante tried to place the glass on his lips, but he swatted his hand away and snatched the glass, downing the pills with water after.

As he tried again to sit up, refusing the twins’ help, his stomach grumbled.

Dante scratched his beard. “I. Uh, didn’t buy take-out. I forgot you... needed food.”

Vergil stood up, and walked out of the room. The two didn’t ask why.

“You should take a shower; I bought some stuff here that dresses wounds and all that. At least, that’s what the bald man said.”

Nero tried to stand up. It didn’t work. “As you can see...”

“You want help?” Dante suggested.

He looked at him for a second. “To stand, or to take a shower?”

Dante swept his hair away from his face. “Um. What would you rather?”

“None.”

“Are you just gonna lay here then?”

“No.”

Dante sniffed. “Alright. You don’t want It, but you need It. Got It.” he took Nero’s arms in his shoulders and led him to the bathroom.

He helped Nero settle on the bathtub, taking the clothes he’s handing over to the (overflowing) laundry basket until he’s only left with boxers. The purple bruises on his body only lingered faintly now, all the cuts healed to pale lines.

Twisting the tap to leak warm water and holding the detachable shower head to Nero’s hair, he grabbed a pink shampoo bottle, sniffing it. “Strawberry?”

Arching an eyebrow, Nero replied, “It smells nice.”

He started to lather the product in his hair, massaging It until suds started to form. The whole room smelled like strawberries.

“So,” Dante started, making sure no demon fetus fluids still scented his hair.

“The hand-holding?” Nero guessed.

“Wow, aren’t you perceptive.”

Nero closed his eyes. “You should ask Vergil instead. I don’t feel like talking.”

Turning the shower on to wash the shampoo off, he said, “Your father’s attitude’s rubbing off on you, kid. Not sure If I like It or not.”

Nero only hummed in response.

Dante then grabbed the shower gel, which also smelled like strawberries. He pumped a generous amount on his palm and reached out for Nero’s face, but he swatted him away, saying, “Don’t put that in my face, idiot.”

He was confused. “What else would you clean your face with? Besides soap?”

“I have a face wash.”

“You have a _face wash._ ”

“A lady thanked me for saving her once by giving me her shopping bags. I liked the products in It.”

Dante nodded his head, muttering, “ _Uhuh,_ ” while spreading the gel on his neck and torso, gently massaging since he assumed Nero’s muscles were still strained.

As he continued to lather on Nero's arms, he finds himself saying, “Damn, you have _absolutely_ no hair on your body.”

“Yeah, people say that.”

Dante’s jaw slacked. “Pe—people say that? You...?”

“Are you trying to ask If I have sex with other people?”

Dante’s cheeks slightly reddened, muttering, “Never mind...”

He finished lathering soap all over his nephew’s body, washing It off with water after. He asked, “Okay, where’s your face wash now?”

“Somewhere on the sink,” Nero answered.

He stood up, getting another pink bottle labeled, ‘Kylie Skin Face Wash’, and settled on the edge of the bathtub. He pumped the product on his hands, and It oozed a flutter of foam. “How is this _soap?_ ”

“Dante, just put It on my face.”

“Alright, alright,” he complied, slathering foam on his face. “You know, you could’ve done this yourself.”

Eyes closed, Nero replied, “Your hands already touched all my body. Why stop at my face?”

Dante sighed. He finished washing him off then, dried him with a semi-clean towel and handed him a toothbrush already topped with toothpaste, saying, “Do that. I’ll grab you some clothes.” and went out.

By the time he finished brushing his teeth, Dante walked in and handed him light-colored sweatpants and a dark cotton shirt.

Before he can grab It though, Dante smirked. “You sure you can handle that now?” he taunted, only attempting to tease him.

Nero blankly looked at him for a moment. Then he slumped down the bathtub and said, “Now that I think of It, no.”

Dante blinked. He scowled at himself, muttering, “Okay, that was a bad idea...”

He pulled the shirt down Nero’s head, manually sitting him up since he refused to fucking sit. His hands stopped at the waistband of his wet boxers, silently asking for permission. Nero shrugged, looking at him vacantly.

Sliding his underwear down, he found out that Nero also had _absolutely_ no hair in there. Moving on, he pulled the sweatpants up to his waist and helped him to his bedroom.

He can’t lay him down on the bed though, as a bowl of stew was placed in the middle, complete with a napkin and spoon.

Instead, they sat on the edge of the bed, Nero leaning on his shoulders. Dante smiled, saying, “Looks like a certain someone made a little somethin’ for you, huh?”

Nero hummed, shifting to a comfortable position on Dante’s side. He made no move to lift the spoon in the bowl.

Dante clicked his tongue. He figured the painkillers were kicking in. “I’m not your butler, you know,” he said, but spoon-fed him anyway.

After the bowl was empty, Nero’s eyes were growing unfocused, his eyelids fluttering. He set the dishes aside, laid him down, and pondered if he wasted his money on medical supplies, as Nero’s external injuries were now mostly healed.

Dante watched him calmly sleep for a moment. Then he switched the lights off, and quietly closed the door.

* * *

It started when Vergil cooked for them, Nero thinks. It started when Vergil rescued him, Nero thinks. It started when—

When It really started, though, is when he found himself seeking for Vergil's attention, Vergil's approval, Vergil's touch, Vergil's _anything_.

After that day the twins spoiled and nursed him, which he doesn’t want to remember at all, really, he'd notice the little quirks his father had—his _dimples_ , for god's sake, how he _smoothes_ his hair, for heaven’s sake, and even how he occasionally rubs his nose when reading a book. For fuck's sake.

And, oh, the touches. _Oh my god_ , the touches. Vergil’s hand was in itself, a problem. It constantly palms at his neck, holds his hands, and to his horror, he always unconsciously leans into those warm, warm caresses.

He isn’t good at dealing with It. Or hiding It, in fact.

One thing he's good at though, is avoiding the problem.

He acquired a gym membership. It's the perfect excuse to leave the house often without a solo Devil May Cry job listing.

Once he did his usual workout (which was overly extensive for a normal human being, and he gained a rather infamous reputation for It) and went home, he goes by his day discreetly trying to evade Vergil in general.

He doesn’t outright fend off his father, per se, but It’s enough for the twins to notice something’s wrong. Not exactly concerning his relationship with Vergil, but he himself.

“You can... talk with me, you know.” Dante had said.

Nero stopped eating his apple. “Talk about what?”

“I mean, I noticed you, uh... have problems?”

He squinted. “Problems?”

Dante cleared his throat. “…Okay, forget It.”

But on the instances with Vergil—thing is, there’s that bond thing. He, no doubt, already has a decent grasp on why Nero’s stuck-up with him all of a sudden. What’s troubling Nero though, is that he doesn’t give anything away.

Right now, he’s just tired of dealing with his own bullshit. And if Vergil also won’t deal with his bullshit, he guesses he’d just have to play it cool.

By being weirdly affectionate with his beloved father.

* * *

Nero asked, “What would you teach me then?”

Vergil was looking through Dante’s assortment of liquor and took a bottle labeled, ‘Anejo Rum’.

He answered, “A Cuba Libre.”

Nero followed Vergil to the kitchen, taking out a one-liter Coca-Cola jug and lime from the fridge.

Earlier, as his father was attending his own hobbies, Nero thought It’d be a splendid idea to strike a chat. Given, he _was_ Vergil, and ordinary chit chat won’t interest him at all. So, he spent about fifteen minutes demanding for a ‘how to make a cocktail’ lesson.

As It is now, Vergil eventually sighed and relented.

“Cut the lime into wedges,” Vergil instructed.

He took out a wooden cutting board and started chopping. “Do you need to boil anything here?”

“No,” Vergil replied, watching him over his own shoulder.

Nero side-eyed him, taking a piece of lime. He held It up, saying, “Don’t you take these with salt?”

His father took the wedge from his hand. “Yes. But It’s paired with tequila, not rum.”

“Can I do It anyway?”

Vergil walked away for a moment, and came back with a jar of salt. He poured rum on a shot glass.

Nero sprinkled salt on a lime wedge, but Vergil held his wrist, stopping him. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m... salting a lime?”

Vergil moved in his space and held the back of his hand to Nero’s lips. “Moisten the spot under my forefinger,” he told him.

Nero blinked. “With my tongue?”

“Why else would I be holding my hand over your mouth?”

He rolled his eyes, but complied. Once Vergil retracted his hand, he sprinkled salt over It and brought It to his son’s lips again.

“Lick the salt off, then take a shot.”

Nero glided the tip of his tongue over the salt, took the shot in his mouth, and bit the lime wedge after. It burned his throat.

“Okay,” he said hoarsely, “I’m—I’m having second thoughts on the cocktail.”

Vergil smirked in amusement. “Our cocktail’s going to be half soda. I’m sure you’ll handle It fairly well.”

He then took two clean glasses and taught Nero how much soda and rum would be poured in each. They dropped ice cubes, squeezed lime over It, and topped It off with two wedges delicately placed on the rim of the glass.

They leaned on the counter, clicked their glasses together, and drank It.

“That’s... pretty good,” Nero said, smiling at his father.

“I told you so.” Vergil took a sip again, saying, “Next time, we’ll have It without the Coke and lime.”

Nero narrowed his eyes. “Wouldn’t that be just rum?”

“That’s the point.”

He flicked Vergil’s hand, arching his eyebrow. “You’re dirty, y’know that?”

Vergil looked away, but Nero knew he was hiding a grin—as a dimple began to mark his cheeks.

* * *

“Hey, want a haircut?” Nero sat on the reception desk, facing Vergil.

His father paused reading, and stared at him vacantly.

Nero repeated, “A haircut,” he made a scissoring motion with his finger, “I snip your hair with a scissor.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“You want one?”

Vergil continued to stare for a second. Then he stood up, asking, “Where do you want me?”

Nero led him up the stairs and walked in the bathroom. Dante was brushing his teeth on the sink, and he looked at them weirdly. Nonetheless, he finished brushing and went out, muttering, “...I’m not even gonna ask.”

Nero hanged his coat on the doorknob and closed It. He suggested, “You should take off your coat. And your vest. And whatever layers of clothing you still have under that.”

While Vergil was taking off his clothes, hanging It on the rack, Nero was rummaging the drawers, looking for a comb and scissors.

Vergil sat on the edge of the bathtub, facing the door. Nero took his boots off, standing inside It, and started to dampen Vergil’s hair with warm water.

He can’t help but ask though, “Why does your hair smell like my strawberry shampoo?”

“That’s yours?”

Nero chuckled. “Smells nice, doesn’t It?”

Vergil hummed.

Nero then held up the scissors to his nape, snipping away the hair that’s grown too long. He moved on to shape the middle and top portion, which resulted to scattered hair sticking to Vergil's naked back.

Cutting away near his ear, Nero noticed that he’d started to grow some stubble. “You gonna keep that?”

“Keep what?”

He brought his right hand to Vergil's face, feeling the short coarse hair by stroking his fingers over It. He flicked his nose.

Vergil flicked his hand back. “Shave It if you want to.”

“Okay.” Nero finished touching up his hair, dried It with a towel, and combed It back.

He stepped out and rummaged through the drawers again, looking for Vergil’s fancy shaving cream and his fancy razor that looked like a switchblade.

Settling inside the tub, back against the wall, he told Vergil, “Lean back.”

Vergil bowed until his head rested on Nero’s torso, looking up at him.

“Hi,” Nero held his chin with both hands, looking down at him. He flicked his jaw.

Scowling, Vergil grasped his hands to prevent him from doing anything.

“I can’t shave you if you hold my hand like that.”

“Stop assaulting my face.”

Nero crookedly smirked. “You call finger flicking assault?”

“Stop flicking my face.”

Nero snickered. “Alright, alright. Let go now.”

Vergil let go, and he started to lather the expensive shaving cream all over his stubble.

“Oh my god, your shaving cream smells like strawberries. Where the hell did you get this?”

“I accidentally saved a man once. He gave me his shopping bags after.”

Nero stopped spreading the cream. “You’re _kidding._ ” his jaw slackened.

Vergil frowned, although he didn’t look menacing with foam all over. “I’m not.”

Nero moved on and started to shave him, but he had this _weird_ look while he’s at It.

He moved the blade with the stubble’s grain, applied more cream, then moved It against the grain. He viewed his work, caressing his fingers over his father’s face.

“It’s soft,” he commented.

“You’re finally good at something. Should I be proud?”

Nero snorted, and flicked Vergil’s nose again.

* * *

“Do we need milk?” Nero eyed the various milk brands stacked on a shelf labeled, ‘50% OFF!’.

“No, but you can get It if you want,” Vergil said, pushing the cart towards him.

They’re in the grocery, supplementing their low food supply. But really, It’s mostly because Dante complained about his suspiciously purging alcohol supply.

Before Nero can grab his milk though, he saw a free taste stall, and walked there instead.

“Hello, sir! Care to try our ice cream?” the clerk said.

Nero took four samples without looking at her and went back to Vergil.

He held out a plastic cup to him, saying, “Hi, sir! Care to try our ice cream?”

Vergil eyed him amusedly, and took the cup from him.

Nero took their food and essentials from shelf to shelf, walking around with his free samples in hand, Vergil trailing at his back with the cart.

They found the liquor section. “I don’t know anything about these. You pick instead.” Nero told him.

Vergil took _a lot_ of bottles, putting it neatly in the cart. He figured they’ll just earn the money back from harassing Morrison for more jobs.

They also passed through the beauty & bath isle, took more strawberry-scented products, and went back home.

* * *

“What’s that?”

Vergil sat in his usual spot, smoking, but instead of a cigarette, his fingers held a translucent stick filled with a certain green plant.

“You tell me,” he told Nero.

Nero leaned over the desk, studying the stick. “It smells like skunk.”

Vergil inhaled, then blew the smoke straight on his face.

Nero waved his hand around, saying, “It really smells like shit. You’re gonna make this place smell like shit.”

“Am I?”

Nero noticed Vergil’s eyes were mostly black, pupils dilated. “Are you on something?”

“Am I?”

“Wow, you’re definitely on something.”

As Vergil exhaled the smoke, he asked, “Do you want?”

“Want what?”

Vergil shook the stick.

Nero pursed his lips. “It smells like shit. And It’s gonna make me cough.”

“Not with how I intend to share It to you, It’s not.”

He studied the stick further. “Oh, It’s weed.”

“Evidently,”

“Are you trying to get me high?”

“You're voluntarily talking to me while inhaling my second-hand smoke.”

Nero arched his eyebrow. “You blatantly asked me if I wanted a hit just a second ago.”

“Did I?”

Nero sighed. “You’re really annoying while on drugs.”

Vergil’s lip pulled up. “Am I?”

Nero glared at him. “Alright, fuck It.”

He sat over the desk, legs dangling around Vergil’s thighs. “Hit me.”

His father inhaled once more. He then stood up, placed his hands on the desk beside his son’s waist, and exhaled the smoke as he pressed his lips on Nero’s own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone was wondering, Dante left the dishes in Nero's room.
> 
> The next chapter's also going to be a part two of this =)
> 
> Edit: happy 420 hits! lol

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for those five hits who read before i edited ao3's buggy formatting =)


End file.
